Consequences
by Kajune
Summary: Orihara Izaya never foresaw how great that one mistake he made would cost. Months go by and he is only sinking further into the pit of despair, sadness, heart break, and suicidal behavior. Delizaya Shizaya
1. Captured

**Title **: Consequences

**Disclaimer** : I do not own any of the Characters of Durarara!.

**Genre** : Hurt / Comfort / Romance

**Warning **: Contains maleXmale content. Character Death. Non-Con. OOCness. OCs.

**Summary **: Orihara Izaya never foresaw how great that one mistake he made would cost. Months go by and he is only sinking further into the pit of despair, sadness, heart break, and suicidal behavior. Delizaya Shizaya

* * *

**Captured**

* * *

Delic slowly moves his hand along his partner's hip, his fingertips barely touching the beautiful light skin. As he descends, his face shows nothing but pure content. No exhaustion, no boredom; just content. Soon those fingers find themselves meeting their target, and with fairly rough strokes, he pumps his partner without a single warning.

"Ah..h..!"

Izaya lets out a moan, satisfying his dominant partner with his sweet voice. However, he is not happy with this. Due to exhaustion, Izaya is unable to prevent the physical responses elicited by Delic's skillful hand, falling victim each time the blond decides to do as he pleases with his abused body. Countless times the raven has already come, dirtying his own bed sheets without a saying in it at all. Of course, it's not like he is being raped by the blond beauty, he just doesn't like the man's stamina while in bed, and his habit of making Izaya squirm and moan like a whore.

He still has some pride left, by the way.

The purple sheets get covered in more of Izaya, but once is not enough. His expression unchanging, Delic continues to pump his naked partner for the last time...until they meet again. Once done, Delic leans up to kiss Izaya's sweaty forehead, before forcing their lips together in a sloppy kiss. His other hand travels down to touch the bloody and abused rear until, for what feels like the first time in a long while, Izaya jerks away.

Resistance has rarely occurred during their nights or random mornings together. In fact, Delic is so good at what he does that a fussy partner is foreign to him. In the end, all those who join him in this lustful act fall on their knees for him, begging for more, despite knowing his true nature.

With an amused grin, Delic watches as Izaya slightly shifts away from him, 'slightly' since he is emotionally unable to do much more. No one is. Though, instead of persisting further like usual, Delic pats the blushing raven on the head, in a way a parent would to a child.

"Enough."

The raven mutters, in a hoarse voice that is almost hard to hear. Delic does not express hurt, does not feel rejected, instead he smiles, knowing it to be a temporary demand. He gives the soft hair a few strokes before kissing those bruised lips again. No matter how roughly he goes, his partners always keep asking for more, either in the next hour, or the next second.

Izaya pulls away again, but just for the fun of it, Delic cups the side of his cheek and turns his face back towards him, kissing him again, gently. Izaya resists still, jerking his head away before Delic gently brings the kiss back, and this time...the raven surrenders.

The rather petite body in front of him practically melts as he continues kissing, their lips pressed together without much force, knowing it to be discouraging at times. The blond lies his partner back down onto the pillow, but since he did what he just did for mere fun, he doesn't go any further.

He soon pulls away and grins at those half-lidded eyes. No words of hate nor rejecting hands come at him, no death glares nor violent kicks dare to separate him from what he deems utterly his.

The moment comes to an end when Delic reaches for his cell phone, upon hearing its melody play. Without breaking eye contact, Delic pulls out the device from his shirt pocket, only then does he look down to see the caller's ID. His grin turns somewhat friendlier, and this ignites the jealousy Izaya has been holding in but refuses to acknowledge.

"Don't look at me like that, Izaya-chan."

The blond says as he presses the green button. Surprised the man was still paying attention to him, Izaya blushes as he turns away, facing his back towards the other man now sliding off the bed, and pulling up his zipper. Delic rarely takes off his white and pink suit, preferring to reveal as little of himself as possible in bed while making sure he exposes all about his partners. It may be something Izaya dislikes, but he has long given up failing to force Delic to change his ways.

Tired, Izaya decides to relax himself in preparation for a good night's sleep; something he rarely gets nowadays. Just as he starts drifting off, starts escaping into the world of dreams and fantasy, some words that reach his ears keep him restrained, bound to the world of reality...and pain.

"I will make you experience heaven."

"The cost will be worth my services."

"No one can surpass your beauty."

"I will be there soon, my love~"

A stab in the chest is what Izaya feels, but he does his best to ignore it. There should be no reason for pain, no reason for regret, and no reason to feel hurt by any standards. What this man does when his eyes are not focused on him should be acceptable. It's not like he hasn't known for a long time what this smooth-talking blond does for a living. It would be humiliating if such a talented informant knew not of the things so easy to find.

Sharing the love Delic gives to so many others is only natural, no matter what protest he sometimes feels from within. As mentioned, it's not like he's being forced to open himself up to the man who knows so well how to seduce him into submission, and can see through him so completely it brings his years of forming masks to shame. Only to Delic, does he become vulnerable, to the point that it irks him so.

It is unclear how much time passed since the call started, but surely by the time that weight returns by crawling onto the bed and towering over him, almost possessively, the call has just ended. A finger strokes his pale cheek gently as heat Izaya knows he can never stop wanting comes closer to him, stopping when hot breath blows into one ear along with sweet-spoken words not really needed to be said.

"Sleep well, my sweet darling. I shall return as always, you know that~"

To any man or woman, such words will sound passionate and caring. To ears that have become accustomed to lies and deception - with Izaya being the master of the art - it is painfully clear that even the look in those eyes lack any sort of affection, yet he doesn't care, doesn't say anything (not that he needs to) as the weight steadily removes itself from the bed.

Within a moment's time, Delic is gone from the bedroom. He did not spare a single glance as he made his way towards the door, his mind fully fixated on something else. Now alone in the dark, blue room, its contents visible only by one night stand lamp, the one nearest to Izaya (likely on purpose), the feeling of regret washes over the naked raven.

In the end, sleep never came, and reality stayed.

* * *

**Author's Note** : Sorry for the poor quality. My mind is a bit jumbled up at the moment, luckily I know exactly where I want this story to go. Hope you had fun reading and not too many headaches or confused looks. Thank you for your time~


	2. At the Office

**Title **: Consequences

**Disclaimer** : I do not own any of the Characters of Durarara!.

* * *

**At the Office**

* * *

By the time the sun reaches the high-up windows of a particular bedroom, the owner is no longer there.

The restless young man is currently at his desk, poking the keyboard buttons with expert fingers, rarely missing a letter despite the exhaustion slowly eating away at him...yet he cannot satisfy.

Looking at him from the outside, one cannot see anything wrong with him, and that is the case with Yagiri Namie when she slips into the office, passes by him and reaches her desk, the only sound she makes is the loud thud of her folder when she slams it down, before sitting. She's not mad at anyone, not furious at Mika again...at least, not today.

What transpired just now is merely routine, from the lack of greeting to the air of amusement surrounding the boss and the air of annoyance surrounding the secretary. Neither have said a word upon sight for months, and only speak to each other when they need to, when work calls for it.

The mock-filled conversations have ceased to occur, although sometimes when a client comes over they do resume talking the other into losing their cool, thus making it seem like nothing has changed. Namie doesn't think much has changed, to her, she is only doing what suits her boss best, and it's not like what they're doing now isn't pleasing her more than what they did before.

An hour or so later, and Namie is at her grinning boss' desk, calmly stacking a pile of papers on it but with a scowl on her face. Izaya makes no move to acknowledge the woman's presence, and like how they don't talk unless they have to, this is a daily routine as well. It truly doesn't bother Namie that the man finds his computer screen more fascinating than her. Last time she checked to see what was so amusing, she came to dislike his character more. Luckily, those times when she peered over his shoulder didn't cost her any income.

"Kawasaki-san would like to meet you this Saturday, following an online agreement over your paycheck."

Judging by her voice, it seems her boredom does not stem from her continuous disdain for her boss, but disdain for the man she is mentioning. Both know him to be quite demanding, _polite_, yet always wanting things to be done his way, which kind of bothers the duo who also have their own preferences when dealing with these too-rich-for-their-own-good businessmen.

Izaya's smile doesn't waver, nor do his eyes move.

"Saturday? Why Saturday?"

Namie sighs. This isn't the first time a client has chosen to inconvenience them by using their precious, hopefully work-free weekends.

"He says it's because it's a nice day."

A slight jerk from Izaya informs Namie that the answer is rather funny for the informant, something to laugh about, even though it's hardly a laughable topic for her. Already stuck with long hours of serving an annoying man, she hates to have more time taken from her when she could instead be sharing the weekends with her brother, who usually has the weekends off school. She could even go spying on the boy when he's with his hateful **girlfriend**.

Izaya on the other hand, is much more used to, and very much okay with having all week surrendered to his clients, even when he voices objections in an overly-childish tone. Recently, his acceptance in doing extra work has boosted, when before he would mostly share her passion for weekends off, though Namie refuses to mention this. The only thing they still agree on is that demanding clients are a pain.

Left with nothing more to say, Namie parts from the informant and back to her desk.

By the time the sun is close to the horizon, Namie is gone from the office. Izaya meanwhile, remains sitting on his chair, eyes on his computer and unlike Namie, has not taken a single break since he first sat himself at his desk. The secretary knows this to be another new routine, and therefore never questions its origin.

When one of the many tabs he has up starts flashing, Izaya clicks on it. All day long he has been posting messages, trolling on many innocent people and making a mockery of weak-hearted online communities. At the same time, he had been conversing with other clients, both old and potential. However, when the latest message pops up, Izaya nearly chokes on himself.

_I'm sorry, sir._

_What were you trying to tell me?_

_I cannot make sense of your words._

_Please try again._

True. When those widen eyes look at the bunch of messages he left, he posted, he finds that the newer they are, the less they make sense. Every forum and every chat room, they are all the same. The first ones make perfect sense, even sounding hurtful (as many have replied saying), but the later ones are getting readers very confused. He was writing in a non-human language.

Izaya honestly thought he was typing words, words which, when trying to recall them, his mind comes up blank.

All these people he was intending to tease, to mock or to hurt, now most certainly think he's mentally insane or simply below the age of six. How frustrating it feels. As hands begin to tremble, a face that earlier showed nothing but glee contorts into a dark frown, with eyes glowering dislike.

A few bewildered citizens step aside when a keyboard finds itself on the sidewalk, smashing to bits along with shards of glass none can guess where from, until one little girl looks up and sees a window slightly broken, a hole appearing where it shouldn't, and anyone who looks through that hole can see the shaking informant, still at his desk, wondering what has become of him.

Why has he changed so much?

* * *

People gather and talk by the ground floor of the building, most surrounding the destroyed piece of equipment that could have hit someone as it fell. A few officers are there too, brought over from nearby to help deal with the situation. Hopefully they won't come rushing up to the office where the keyboard fell from. Hopefully.

Izaya pushes himself away from the desk and drags his heavy feet up the stairs, eager to clear his thoughts with a splash of water. He immediately regrets the decision once he's inside the bathroom, blaming it on his foggy, likely over-worked mind. He could have gone to the kitchen sink, but sadly, he didn't.

Grudgingly, Izaya forces himself deeper inside, daring only once to spare the washing basket a glance, before soaking his face in refreshing, ice cold water. In that basket contains nothing but evidence of last night's activity, the stench it's still emitting making the memory no less vivid.

To make matters worse, this very same smell is what he was forced to endure throughout the night, as eyes could only stare at the dark surroundings and find no peace whatsoever. Both the sheets and himself were dirty, urgently in need of washing up. It took him three hours before sunrise to do something about it, and Izaya made absolutely sure he removed every last trace like he always does, from spraying the room to spending at least an hour soaked in almost burning hot water, all so he can keep his private life a secret.

It hurts every time to think of what he lets himself become whenever with that person.

Does he truly have some pride left in him? Is there still a shred of the old Orihara Izaya hidden inside this being standing here, face wet and brain exhausted, with fingers stiff from overuse and no exercise? Izaya wonders all this when he looks in the mirror, and sees his own reflection.

...of course he does.

When the sound of his door bell reaches his ears, Izaya retreats from the bathroom with a confident smile on his face.

A confident smile, along with a confident, joyful air around him.

* * *

**Author's Note** : Feedback is much appreciated~


	3. Last Day Normal

**Title **: Consequences

**Disclaimer** : I do not own any of the Characters of Durarara!.

* * *

**Last Day Normal**

* * *

"Coming~!"

Izaya skips down the steps, smile bright and wide and full of joy, even to the eyes of the two police officers who see him when he opens the door, and greets them with a voice so child-like they doubt his maturity.

"What can I do for you, officers?"

One of them gulps, not yet used to the more inviting citizens of Shinjuku. Pulling his hat a bit, he looks at the informant somewhat straight in the eyes, and answers.

"We have come to inquiry you about the keyboard that fell from your window."

Both men were expecting a horror-filled expression, like one seen on a bad guy who realizes he's been caught. However, they are again startled by the room's resident when he continues to beam them a smile, and show no signs of distress.

"Ah, that! I'm sooooo sorry, officers. You see, I'm terribly scared of spiders, and it was getting dark, so...you know," His voice becomes quiet, ridden with sadness the pair cannot deny. "I, saw things."

The conversation, although one would expect the officers to manage to talk their way into searching the place, in less than five minutes after the three meet, the two who arrived leave, with no further plans of disrupting this man who by no means can be older than ten.

Izaya waits very patiently for the men to leave, to be gone from sight, to be away from his floor and outside of hearing range, for when he slams the door shut, with great force it actually cracks somewhere. The informant drops his back against the door, slides said back down the smooth surface, and lets himself sit, legs outstretched, upon the floor.

What was he thinking just now?

What were those thoughts that ran through his head?

What is the matter with him still?

...Why won't he just get better already?

Izaya tries to force back that same, joy-filled smile, but this only causes his throat to go dry, and his nose to start sniffing. It would be easier to say his sour mood is caused by the arrival of those police officers, considering Izaya is no fan of strangers and if there's anything he hates more than making a fool of himself online, it's having to open his door to people uninvited, especially people of the law.

Not to mention, those men must be drenched in filth, no doubt did they bring in something foul that is making him feel sick, weak, and his nose very uncomfortable. It would be easier to say that he imagined something again because he never wants to see police officers at his front door, the mere thought making his hazy mind go wild. In addition, to say that nothing is wrong with his current condition would be easier too.

Even as the sound of messages popping up fills the room.

There is something wrong with him, and there's hardly any evidence to say it all started because of those two men. The lone sound he can hear already states that he needs sorting out, _needed_ sorting out long before either men even decided to arrive. Regardless of the reason for how he's feeling right now, he needs to do something about himself.

Though simply knowing this doesn't help get him to his feet at all.

Izaya sniffles again, nearly coughs following as he quietly, patiently builds up the will power to eventually move away, away from the door and over to the kitchen. Meanwhile, his exhausted brain is working to relieve him of the stress, the confusion and frustration by repeating reasons why he can proudly say that, the problems _did_ start with the police officers.

They came without permission, despite doing so as part of their duty, they still came...**and** without a warrant.

These thoughts only help to direct Izaya's anger towards the officers, making him hate them despite not knowing them at all. He does prefer the idea of simply forgetting them, but with his mind the way it is, all it wishes to do for him is make his own beliefs appear convincing.

Interestingly, whatever Izaya comes to hate, he hates it with a boiling passion, almost to a fault. Probably since his brain knows this, and knows his pride will be shattered should he truly hate himself the way he hates things now, it intently directs this hate towards other things, _anything_, so long as it is not himself.

How typical.

Izaya's hate for things, has changed along with so many other aspects of his life. There's no doubt that his secretary has already noticed, and is kind enough not to mention any of it. Still, whether or not Izaya is aware of the daily or mental changes of him, he attempts not to do a thing about it.

It's not like it's any big deal, anyway.

Downing the last drop of water from a glass, Izaya tries again to look jolly like he did so well doing this morning, successfully fooling Namie once again into thinking he's the only one having a good time. He was for a while, with his mind distracted by new work and the trolling he was doing.

Things went south when he realized he is _still_...losing it.

Clenching his fists, Izaya chants words of comfort and encouragement, assisting his brain in making him feel overall better. He tries to block out the negative events of today and make it all seem peaceful, perfect, and totally under his control. As he does this, as the memories of those police officers become faint, a certain memory emerges and swirls in his head.

A replacement to direct his hate towards.

* * *

_"I am willing to give you my services free of charge." A sweet voice states._

_Bringing the glass close to his lips, the other replies with amusement not only on his face but in his voice too. _

_"Oh~, and may I ask what brought on such a generous offer?" _

_The taller one bows gracefully, one hand resting on his stomach, the other extended towards his side, like a true gentleman. He is a grand gentleman for doing it while sitting, and not three feet from his latest client._

_"For a first time, of such a young beauty." _

_He looks up and winks, forcing the other to laugh at his compliments again._

_The client is fully aware of what lies behind those sweet words, these gracious offers and the reason for the drinks and fruits prepared upon the low table between them. He knows everything there needs to know about this man, and is certain that whatever the other tells him, said man won't be getting an inch of what he truly wants._

_The shorter one takes a sip of the drink, before resuming their conversation._

* * *

Complete darkness slowly gets replaced by slight darkness as eyelids blink open, eyelids belonging to Izaya, who continues to feel...

Unhappy.

Unhappy because he still feels restless.

Unhappy because he still feels terrible.

Unhappy because he still feels like he's losing it and only spending his days lying. Pretending.

Flat on the sofa, Izaya gazes up at the dark ceiling, dark because the sun has already left the sky, and only the moon can be seen, alongside many, many stars that used to make him feel delighted upon sight. That too has changed. The black sofa he's on also doesn't feel comfortable anymore, despite having been chosen to do the trick, of making every occupant feel blissful to some extent.

Many times has Izaya slept on it, both purposely and accidently. Without the comfort it once gave, the sofa is but a mere tool used for communicating with clients, both the greedy and the rude, the rich and the broke.

Izaya feels so tired, so why can't he sleep? Passing out for an hour or so hasn't made him feel the slightest bit better, so why can't he get any decent sleep again? It's been too long since he last had a good night's rest, and although he can easily blame a lot of things for being the cause, he'd rather not.

...or else he'd be blaming himself too.

All he asks is to rid himself of this torturous day, as he has does with so many prior.

Already has the computer been switched off, a task that felt unusually hard to accomplish. Similar to how he left the seat, he had to drag himself back, had to move feet that felt annoyingly heavy and a body that didn't seem at all eager to do his bidding. He must have used a lot of stamina to talk to those officers, otherwise he would still be able to look as though well, as though strong and healthy.

...as though nothing has ever been wrong to begin with.

He should quickly delete those accounts once he feels ready. The humiliation is too much for him to handle, and it would only get worse if he chooses to instead apologize for his stupidity. It is unlike him to admit to making a mistake.

_Mistake._

Fingers claw at the sofa, slightly tearing the fabric. Teeth grind each other roughly, nearly causing pain. Again, Izaya sniffles...for the tenth time. This seems to be happening quite regularly, especially after his mind goes crazy and thinks of unnecessary thoughts, imagines strange things.

Izaya restrains his fingers and reveals only a deep frown as he continues to feel very weak, while lying on his side.

He just wants to continue doing what he always does. No matter the problems, as long as he can function as the great informant everyone knows him to be, he believes he has nothing to truly worry about. To spend each day having a good time, enjoying himself even at the expense of others, that is what Orihara Izaya does.

Unfortunately, today has turned out to be one of those days when pretending he's alright isn't working out. It has also bluntly proven that his way of thinking is very child-like and even though he can't always look so gleefully, his daily behavior does not resemble that of a person who knows what is right and what is wrong.

He is constantly making small mistakes throughout each day, regardless if Namie notices them.

_Mistake._

It takes about an hour for Izaya to get away from the sofa, and steadily move up the stairs. Putting on a pair of thick, rubber gloves, with a mask over his nose and mouth, Izaya proceeds to clean all the contents in the basket, going so far as to empty the expensive cleaning powder he usually uses in small amounts. By the end of the ordeal, the awful smell is gone.

Certain his bedroom does not smell bad anymore either, Izaya stumbles into it with heavy eyes, a less-than functioning brain, and two extremely weak legs. He collapses onto the bed, onto the new sheets he prepared since this morning. Just like the sofa, the bed is supposed to provide great comfort. For Izaya, he feels as though a blow to the head is the only thing going to knock him out today.

Picking up his cell phone, Izaya looks at it to find no messages nor calls.

Knowing what he was expecting to see, Izaya becomes furious when his mind imagines things again, causing that device to meet the floor and shatter, and for Izaya to hide himself within the clean, light blue blanket.

Somehow, he feels even weaker than he did when he woke up on the sofa.

Why?

Why can't he keep being Orihara Izaya?

...Why...?


	4. Reality

**Title **: Consequences

**Disclaimer** : I do not own any of the Characters of Durarara!.

* * *

**Reality**

* * *

"Ahh...!"

Izaya clenches the sheets with tight, sweaty palms. Moans burst from him each time a hand touches where he's sensitive, and only the man now pushing inside him knows where those places are. The feeling of fullness drives Izaya to come again, a habit of his he's not sure why he developed.

Clothes discarded, his skin bare, Izaya tries to focus his mind as things are being done to him yet he can't seem to catch up to, can't seem to figure out exactly what. The fact that a certain blond has returned (just as promised) only became clear when moans started coming out, since he is the only man able to cause that.

The only man Izaya has ever allowed the chance to do such.

In fact, when did his clothes leave his body is a faint, almost non-existent memory. Maybe he was stripped while asleep, which wouldn't be a first. This is quite hard to believe since Izaya doesn't know when he fell asleep, or did he even manage to fall asleep at all.

He feels agonizingly hot, uncontrollably aroused, as his hips are being moved without his control. He can hear the other man panting, and if it weren't for the hands on his hips and the feeling of kisses down his back, Izaya would not be sure he was still there, doing him.

Exhaustion is once again pushed aside and replaced with a feeling of pleasure, but, even this is not as great as it used to feel.

Each session doesn't seem to be making him feel better, not in the way he thought or was actually hoping it to. The nights or mornings following don't fill him up with a sense of pride, a sense of satisfaction sex usually grants to consenting partners. He always thought these moments helped him feel more alive, and although no one can argue that this wasn't the case to begin with, it is becoming painfully clear that it is absolutely not the case the longer it goes on.

It doesn't help the way Delic treats him in bed, touching him (although skillfully) whenever he wants, and using his very charms to make sure Izaya doesn't refuse all the advances he makes. Somehow, Delic manages to maintain power whenever they are this close together, and as much as Izaya claims to accept being unable to change the blond's ways, deep down Delic's treatment is only resulting in a sense of self-hate.

He's been denying it all morning, pretending not to notice the signs, but...

"Ahh!"

A genius like him, even under the influence of sleep deprivation can tell that, his moments with Delic are damaging him, rendering him less and less like the great Orihara Izaya of Shinjuku. The reason he got so moody after talking to the police officers, the reason why he became extra tired after washing up was...

These moments with Delic hurt his heart.

'They don't!'

Izaya shouts in his head, as his prostate gets assaulted.

"They don't!"

Again.

'They don't upset me. Delic doesn't upset me. I'm asking for this. I'm...'

Hit, again.

'...in control.'

Harder this time.

'I knew he was going to come. I knew it.'

He himself then spills onto the sheets. From the way his forehead is pressed against the bed, he is able to see the substance, see it rest underneath him. He can even see his lower body, his thighs, and almost can he see those white trousers firmly behind him, by his rear.

'It was him, who I was waiting for...to call.'

He screams.

'Right?'

Unfortunately, it wasn't.

* * *

_"Louder darling, I want to hear you call my name~"_

Those were the last words Delic said to him before he, most likely, passed out. He doesn't usually pass out from his moments with the other, since said man knows how to keep Izaya awake even without the intention of doing so, like when he answered that phone call. Izaya does wonder if Delic received any more phone calls following this night with him.

He wonders if his other clients are the reason he didn't come during the day.

Oh dear, what is he thinking? It would have been disastrous had Delic come before nightfall. Izaya can't have Namie seeing the man, it would expose his private life to her once and for all. Though for some reason, the thought makes Izaya worried if Delic would end up taking Namie upon meeting her for the first time.

Izaya grows green with envy, yet some part of his brain is reprimanding him for continuously being possessive of the other. He shouldn't be, then why is he?

Still feeling lethargic, Izaya makes no attempt to dig for the answer to that question, and instead he stuffs his head deeper into the puffy pillow he didn't need to change yesterday. He would have burnt it if he did, since he has a bunch of pillows waiting to replace old ones. This isn't a change in routine, mind you, just the result of receiving too many as a gift from his less-than-rich grandmother.

He even gave one to Shinra out of the blue, since he has so many.

Naked, sweaty, smelly, sleepy, and cranky from one of Delic's surprise visits, Izaya stays inside the confines of his bedroom without a care in what the time is or in the chances of people requesting work to be done by him.

Ahh...work. Izaya has come to adore working as an informant so much. Namie surely knows this to be the case, and so does Shiki. Izaya has become a hard working employee for many, granting his services with little to no complaint. Anything negative he says about work to Namie is only to keep up the act of being happy and jolly, just as he should be.

The laugh itself, was sadly, forced.

In return for working many more hours than before, and putting in more effort than ever, Izaya's income has boosted grandly. However, the figures in his many bank accounts don't serve to satisfy him as much as the actual work does. He likes to tell himself that he does more work because he feels he can do it.

Two months ago he changed his claim to being that, he doesn't want to upset people.

Now, that part of his mind not yet ready to be ignored through sleep, is telling him in his own voice that the real reason is clear, as with the reason for his many changes. He works to distract himself, distract his brain from worries and sadness. He can keep on denying these claims to his grave, but in the end, evidence lies everywhere that he is not going to recover through self-applied lies.

If Delic can't deceive him, what good does it do lying to himself?

Izaya visibly scoffs at these annoying claims, his mind determined to resume his long-awaited trip to dreamland. He is quite thankful of Delic for coming, regardless of the time of day, since he has finally had a good time being unconscious.

Though that part of his being still calls him...childish.

"Shut up!"

Izaya roars when the words won't cease, and what greets him is the silence that has always been there in his room.

The words soon resume after Izaya drops himself back onto the bed. It further states that he can't keep fighting against the truth, can't keep hoping good days will come after this. It claims he is already at his limit, and while another part of his mind agrees to this, can identify the events of yesterday as being total proof, Izaya attempts to scoff again, but discovers himself sniffling instead.

The pillow, in the area near his eyes, is wet. He moves his head away a bit, and looks down, only for a tear to drop from his eyes. _No._ Izaya brushes his fingers over the surface. _No. _He can't believe he's crying, yet again. **No!** The sniffling that constantly occurs...is the result of his body wanting to shed tears.

_No, no, no._

Suppressed memories start flashing by, appearing before him one after another. He correctly assumes this is caused by that diligent part of him, the truth-clinging part. One particular memory drives him to reach for his nightstand, pull open a drawer, and go stiff.

...his switchblade.

For a while he has not touched the thing, not cut anyone or anything for a rather long time. Actually, that's not entirely true. He has been using it, and then hiding the evidence when he starts feeling better and doesn't require it. As tears continue to fall, soaking his cheeks, as that part of him grows quiet almost as if apologizing to him, to himself, Izaya reaches for the blood-soaked blade and holds it near his chest.

The switchblade is covered in his own blood.

Oh, so that's why, when he was in the bathtub, soaking away the traces of the night before, he didn't stay as long as he was hoping to. That's why, when he was sitting by the door, he didn't necessarily need to think much to push himself up, because one thing motivated him to keep on lying, denying the reality he has already fallen deep into.

His wrists have near-invisible cuts on them, and he has being trying to pretend they're not there. He can see them, because the make up he put on got washed off in the shower. Delic might not have noticed, but his own heart has never forgotten.

He is depressed.

Severely.


End file.
